As Henry cleared the board so that Joan might have one more chance to wreak revenge on him, Raby’s eyes wandered around the gathering of people. Raby’s eldest two sons and three
daughters were also at Kenilworth for the Christmas season. Both his sons had brought their wives and children, and Raby hoped to arrange marriages for his three daughters present—
Lancaster had many noble kinsmen and retainers who would be keen to ally themselves with the rising fortunes of the Neville family.
He glanced back to Joan. Her face was drawn and weary, and Raby felt a twinge of concern for her. This baby was important—more than important. If it was a son, well, Raby envisaged an illustrious future for him. He would be the great-grandson of a mighty king, and perhaps even the nephew of another… Raby looked over at Bolingbroke sitting by the fire with his wife, Mary, then dismissed his thought as mere speculation … great-grandson to a king was a powerful enough connection. Raby scratched his chin reflectively, watching his two eldest sons as they gossiped with Lancaster’s chamberlain. They were good men, but from a less worthy mother than Joan… and now Raby was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t arrange for the titles of Raby and, now, the earldom of Westmorland, to pass to his son by Joan. His sons by his first wife would be disappointed … but they could be managed.
Joan laughed, and then coughed in the laughing, and Raby bent to her in concern.
FROM HIS solitary spot at the edge of the group, Neville had been watching Raby with as much speculation as Raby had been observing his children. Neville knew Raby well, perhaps too well, and thought he knew exactly what was going through his uncle’s mind. He liked Raby’s sons, and hoped that if Raby was going to pass them over for the titles of Raby and Westmorland then he should do so with as much grace and circumspection as possible—the Neville clan was large enough for its own bloody civil war if Raby was less than cautious or conciliatory.
He sighed. Who was he to judge others on their family relations?
As if they had a will of their own, his eyes slid to where Margaret sat with Mary and Katherine, Bolingbroke standing to one side and Rosalind playing with a ball of scarlet wool at their feet.
Margaret had a faraway expression on her face, but when she caught Neville’s look she hurriedly glanced away.
MARGARET BENT down and picked up Rosalind, hoping that Neville would not realize she’d seen his look. She held the baby to her, gently kissing the girl’s black curly hair, and trying to ignore her husband’s continued gaze.
She did not know what to do about Thomas. Once she had wanted his love so badly, but now? While Margaret had healed physically from Richard and de Vere’s rape, the emotional and psychological wounds were taking far longer to close over. A very large part of her wanted to continue to punish Thomas, to hurt him as badly as his callousness had hurt her, and so she refused any overtures on his part, refused any of his attempts to beg forgiveness, or to be kind to her.
Margaret smiled grimly into Rosalind’s hair, rocking her back and forth and pretending a total absorption in the child while thoughts of her husband dominated her mind. Bolingbroke kept saying that there was a loving and gentle man beneath the carefully built layers of chill piousness, but Margaret was not so certain. Thomas’ infernal casket was all-important to him, as was his devotion to his hateful, wicked God and archangel.
He would never, never give up them for her.
“Margaret.” Mary’s gentle voice cut into her reverie. “Come back… please.”
Margaret blinked, and wiped away her tears with a jerky motion of one hand. “I am sorry, Mary.”
Mary gave Margaret’s hand a brief squeeze. “Here it is almost Christmastide, and you are still lost in melancholy—”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Margaret said, and then flinched as she realized what she’d said. Two weeks ago Mary had miscarried of a tiny fetus—if that pulpy lump of blackveined flesh could be called a fetus—and Margaret knew that Mary had wept long into many nights over its loss.
She’d also lost considerable weight in the past six weeks, and Margaret wondered if the seeds of malaise Mary carried within her were finally starting to manifest themselves. Had that imp decided to poke its blackened face into the sunlight? “My lady,” she said softly, “I am sorry. What I just said was—” Mary laid a hand on Margaret’s arm, silencing her. “What I have lost is gone,” she said. “But what you think you’ve lost can be regained.” She looked steadily at Margaret. “Let it go. Accept Thomas’ contrition. You hurt yourself only by keeping
him so distant.” Margaret tightened her arms about Rosalind, rested her chin in the girl’s hair, and stared at the floor. “He does not love me,” she said.
“You wouldn’t know,” Mary said, “as you’ve not given him a chance to show you.” To that, Margaret was not prepared to reply. While Margaret was no longer sure if she wanted Thomas’ love, she knew she did not want to have to fight for it. She was too tired of fighting and hoping, and she wasn’t sure now if she could accept Thomas’ love, even if he did offer it.
Disturbed by the wretchedness of her thoughts, Margaret twisted her mind away from Thomas, thinking instead of Mary and Katherine. Both women had been extraordinarily good to her in these past months; their warmth and friendship had kept her alive during hours when she’d thought it better she were dead. Raby’s wife, Joan, had also become a close companion. Margaret’s mouth twisted a little in wry humor… no doubt Raby spent some sleepless nights wondering if she would ever prattle to his wife about the time Margaret had spent in Raby’s bed during last year’s French campaign.
Katherine, Mary, Joan… all were good friends, but the world of women wasn’t the entire world, and ever since she’d been a child—and certainly ever since she’d become aware of her role in the great battle looming—Margaret had wanted only to be held and loved in a man’s arms. Hal loved her, but he didn’t count, not in the way she needed to be loved.
Besides, Hal’s love didn’t stop him using her to further his own ambitions—our ambitions, Margaret corrected herself. This is not only his battle.
Her time with Roger, her first husband, had been sweet, but endlessly frustrating. An impotent husband withering away needed love—he could not give it. Raby? Margaret sighed.
Raby was a good man, but more than most nobles he needed titles and power attached to a woman’s skirts in order to love her.
And so back to Thomas. Always back to Thomas. How could she trust him when the next time Thomas betrayed her for his casket, God or archangel, Margaret knew he would destroy her completely? After all, wasn’t that what God and Michael had planned?
How could she dare to love him, or even allow him to love her, when there lay only death ahead?
NEVILLE FELT sick at heart as he watched Margaret ignore him. Margaret had spoken to him only those words necessary for politeness in the past three months since they’d come north—
In those three months since that terrible night when he’d discovered that he’d sent his wife to be raped for the wrong casket.
—and in the privacy of their chamber had cringed every time he had tried to touch or caress her. All Neville wanted to do was beg her forgiveness, and perhaps hold her and try and ease away some of the hurt he had caused … but Margaret would not allow him even that.
Neville had changed greatly in these recent months. He had thought himself prepared to risk his wife—and Bolingbroke’s Mary—in order to win that casket… and the realization that the price was greater than the reward had come as a horrifying shock to him.
Neville could have blamed Bolingbroke, for the entire endeavor had been Bolingbroke’s idea, but he did not. He could have blamed Richard, for surely it was Richard who had made him think he’d discovered the right casket, but he did not. He still loathed Richard as the Demon-King, and despised him for what he had done to Margaret, but he could not blame him.
Instead, Neville blamed himself. Every day, every hour, Neville relived in his mind that horrific moment when he’d realized that the casket was worthless.
Every day, every hour, Neville re-heard those words his battered wife had spoken to him as she lay on her bed: isn’t this what the angels chose you for? The great pious priest, cold enough to cast even the most innocent into the flames for God’s great cause.